With respect to god Major Faust and Sergeant Richter removed the Remus family from the pages of their own history book, stealing away their faces, and the faces of fathers and mothers that lived before them, so the Clematis Ballroom might take upon the anonymity of any person passing by. In that, they passed along the title to Benjamin Remus’s home, and the surreal terrarium that had formed within those walls, to god. The walls were piebald with pale square patches where black and white family portraits were once framed. Sergeant Richter removed college diplomas from the walls, tore down newspaper clippings, and defaced any evidence of the family that once lived there. A multitude of black and white photographs taken over years past, which gave tale of a bond between violinist and nature – that of Reuben Remus and Terra – were confiscated by Sergeant Richter; and within cupboards and odd drawers he, too, discovered memories that did not qualify for Martha Remus’s showcase… there lied the treasure of a mouse-hunt… Reuben Remus’s childhood – the early years of the pursuit of the language of heaven and earth, in which fingers swelled with blisters and frustration showed in nearly every photograph – was a box all its own. And beside it Sergeant Richter discovered another unlabeled box of memories: one of ticket stubs to the musical theatre that were stuffed between the pages of Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Homer’s Odyssey, and other catalogues of greek mythology… and mixed with these books and keepsakes was Benjamin Remus’s drafting equipment – compasses, measuring sticks, and rolled up papers of childish engineering measurements that were the result of Benjamin Remus teaching a young Reuben Remus of the majesty of mathematics: the blueprints of a father and son who spoke different languages. And it was when Sergeant Richter noticed a third box containing the recapitulation of a prodigy: that a musical Jew – an imp – some unbelievable mythical being birthed under surreal circumstances, and raised in accordance with the style of its birth so that, in time, it would exceed the ordinary; that this imp, this musical Jew, a being identified as Reuben Remus was the one responsible for the Garden of Eden; so it was upon that revelation that Sergeant Richter lay down the green pillow case with embroidered pink flowers to carry boxes upon boxes of Reuben and Benjamin Remus’s legacies into the kitchen…

… He found Major Faust on the second floor in a room where geometry and rigidity was repurposed by the ecosystem of the Clematis Vine. Brownish-green blades of grass replaced hardwood floor; green vines supporting multi-colored bouquets dominated all four walls and hung effortlessly from the ceiling; soft moss dripped from Reuben Remus’s wooden desk where poems, music sheets and journals decomposed — words that had since been transubstantiated into moldy emotions that filled the room with the smell of stagnant vacancy. Wind passed under the sheets of a neatly made bed, which was protected by strong wooden vines with large, sharp thorns that bent and twisted around the bedposts to defend Reuben Remus’s dreams from trespassers… And it was in this bed that Major Faust lay down on his back with head placed between a crown of thorns with his arms out wide and his legs stiff and straight. Sergeant Richter first thought what you are thinking now, but certain blasphemy is not so. This was no embrace of a holy place; no replication of a sacrificial son; and certainly no attempt to bless a Jewish home with the posture of Jesus Christ! It was a reliving… yes. A man — a musical Jew — once slept in place and a mind once dreamed… and certain residues never fade: that of a mind at rest (ectoplasmic dream-juice, if you will). The residue (and don’t think it does not seep from your pillow) reveals ones subconscious. Major Faust knew this very well. His eyes were shut and his breathing was calm. He was… empathizing. And Terra allowed it…

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About Connor Wilkins

Quickly, quickly... take your seat. Our storyteller is about to begin. Shhhh. Listen... His pipes are fluting emotions of myth and fable, but don't be fooled by fantasia for there are truths hidden within his unworldly tellings. We're drifting now... back in time to a world only he remembers.